Gerard found himself in a distant memory. The horizon was clear and the few clouds in the sky glowed over the flat desert plain. It was dusk. Next to him was Scott, his younger brother. They were on duty in Kennéh that day, commanding several troops. Time seemed to have fallen asleep as they both listened to the whispering soldiers and gazed out over the distant golden landscape.
A chill chased away this feeling of calm.
He saw a lone tear on his brother's cheek and heard him complain angrily that he always acted the same way with him, that he never listened to him, that he had never accepted him for who he was and that he never trusted him either.
He wanted to talk, but he couldn't. He thought helplessly that it was all true, that it was all his fault, that he didn't want to be left alone.
Scott sighed in annoyance at his silence.
“I thought so,” his resigned voice reverberated. “Goodbye then. I have to find my path, to follow that voice, even though you never cared what I wanted, did you?”
The young man looked once more at the dying sun before turning away and walking toward the horizon opposite the sunset. In the shadows, other impatiently waiting ghosts turned and left him. They disappeared into the distance.
He felt everything around him fade and sink into darkness. He saw the sun die behind the rocks and felt the emptiness inside him again.
Calm and silence followed, disturbed only by drops falling heavily to the ground.
When he opened his eyes, he realized that he was in a foul-smelling dungeon and that his friends were not with him.
“Cam! Buck! Frances! Is anyone there?” he gasped.
Suddenly he remembered his dream and Scott. It had been a long time since he'd had such dreams. He had to shake them away and concentrate on the present. He put one hand to his face and ruffled his hair with the other.
He heard a noise behind him and shuffled to the back of the cell, half sitting.
From a shady corner, a young man dressed in the typical shabby clothes of an insurgent slowly approached.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gerard Wilker, it's about time you woke up. I suppose you were expecting the general. Unfortunately, he's busy up there. I'd tell you he sent his greetings… but that would be a lie, he hates you,” he laughed falsely. It seemed that every soul that came in contact with Scott Wilker caught a bit of his conflicted nature.
“I know, I know,” Gerard sighed, hiding his bitterness. “Where are my companions?” He stared at him.
“Oh yes… They're upstairs. Dying, I think.” He let out that disgusting laugh again.
“What?! What have you done to them? Answer me!”
“Let's just say that the grenades scattered more than just sleeping gas. Our general didn't want you to die, that's the only reason you're not dead.”
Gerard thought that that smile could make anyone explode with rage, that it was like a red cape whose only purpose was to infuriate the bull.
“What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?”
“Because those are my orders; and because you came to attack us, and we had to defend ourselves. Any more stupid questions?”
He would have liked to tell him that they didn't come to hurt anyone, but he knew that was a half-truth, so he didn't refute it.
“No. I want to know why you're here, in this camp.”
The question seemed to puzzle him.
“Is that any of your business? Whatever! Because this organization is the means to a better future, the hope of tomorrow,” he replied, grave as a tomb, “and also because Mr. Wilker was the only one who understood it. He opened our eyes to the reality of our situation, a reality hidden behind layers and layers of unnecessary worry and pain… I owe him my life and my dignity. It is an interesting story.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Colonel Douglas Blackburn: in charge of Sarzo's defense and your captor.”
“You're pretty young for a colonel. Do I know you?”
He thought he'd heard that name before.
“I doubt it, sir. And yes, I am. You know why? Because I'm a goddamn genius at what I do: that's what counts here. And besides, we don't have the luxury of a tight, slow chain of command like yours. You know what life is like for us, oh, sure you do.”
“Mmh” he had barely heard those last words. “I think it was during a border raid about thirteen years ago. Scott was loyal to Cinia back then. And one of the mayors of the nearby towns had that last name, I remember because we talked to him a lot.”
“What?” A sudden burst of anger came over him, “You were one of those who attacked my town? I would have gladly let you pump me full of lead just for the chance to kill you all, to get revenge!”
Blackburn picked up a rusty pipe from the ground and threw it at the bars.
“Heh, no…” He shook his head, eyes closed, “That was a long time ago. Though thanks to it I became a soldier of the Dragon’s Society.”
He opened them again and Gerard stared at him: his right eye reflected the faint light of the beam he had been standing under, a prosthesis for sure.
Then he tried to remember that time, after the truce with Kennéh, during the darkest days of the Border War: it had been bloody, and they had wiped out entire organizations.
He spoke slowly.
“It wasn't us. The kennéhsian government did their investigation and they couldn't come to any conclusions. They framed us! There were no civilians among our targets… We were looking for enemy hideouts.”
“Lies! We were not to blame if there were criminals hiding in the town or the nearby lands.” He looked over his shoulder and laughed grimly. “I just remembered something.”
“Would you like to tell me about it? Maybe you can bring something new to the…”
“Mr. Gerard, you talk as if you were going to walk out of here. But…” He looked up at the ceiling with a half-smile; his smile never reached his eyes. “Yes, why not? Then I can watch the guilt, if you feel it, consume you like the poison in the blood of your friends.”
Blackburn paced slowly across the room, eyes closed, muttering something inaudible. Gerard watched him with anger and confusion, struggling to remain calm. The former stopped in front of his cell and crossed his arms, looking in every direction but his own.
“Damn it! You can be sure that the only reason I don't kill you right now is because I was ordered not to.”
He leaned lightly against a wall next to Gerard's cell. It was actually a huge cage, the only one in the room.
“My family, all of us, believed in the peace pact Cinia had made with Kennéh, so we were calm. What a mistake!” he grunted. “We didn't see them coming… The village burned like an inferno. The Cinian soldiers razed it to the ground.” He paused briefly to catch the breath that was escaping while his memories flooded him. “And after that night, the inhabitants who had not been killed left, not even daring to raise their voices because they were scared to death. I refused to go; I didn't want to go. My family died there, and there was my house, even though it was destroyed, it was my house.
“I had an older brother before, two years older. And he stayed with me in that devastated town. How glad I was that he didn't go without me! Because I was just a pathetic fourteen-year-old teenager then, and I was afraid to be left alone.”
Blackburn growled into the void. His eyes, narrowed and resentful, stared at something invisible.
“We were both very hurt and stressed,” he continued. “It was hard to survive on our own: food was scarce, we were cold at night, and thieves and looters came to take what they could from the wreckage. Growing hatred and distrust consumed us. Hatred for you traitorous Cinians; hatred for my neighbors who abandoned us; hatred for our country that did nothing for us; hatred for the looters and everyone else.”
“As the weeks passed, I thought we would both lose our minds. He would do nothing but shout and curse everything around us. He even ended up ransacking houses for as much alcohol as he could get his hands on. The bastard had never drunk before, but that was before. I tried my best to tolerate him because I understood his upset. I would have liked to run away with him, but we had nowhere to go, we didn't know anything outside of our home.”
Gerard's eyes narrowed, but he didn't try to speak. The other, devoted to the story, moved a little closer to the grillage.
“One day the society came to town, and I met its leader, Scott Wilker. He helped me overcome my fear. He showed me, as a manner of speaking, the other side of the coin of my fortune. He helped me to see reality as clear as it is and always will be. He offered me to go with him, but of course, there was my brother. Mr. Wilker told me that he was obfuscated, spoiled, that he could never see what I could see, that now he would only be a hindrance if he came with me… And I saw that he was right. But I didn't want to leave him alone. After all, he hadn't abandoned me. My general made a suggestion, and I accepted it, determined to help my brother in the only way I could… Although I must admit that I did it more out of weariness and anger than out of compassion.”
Gerard felt his blood pressure drop and realized he was sweating a little.
“What did you do?”
“I killed him. I shot him.”
Blackburn laughed briefly, his expression indifferently amused.
“He was sick, and Mr. Wilker made me see that rotten people like him are not worth suffering for, and that only those who are like the society, the few who are like us, deserve any regard.”
His heart was torn, not by what the man had done, but by what Scott had done to him. He wondered with indignation how he could live like this, how he could take someone's life without killing them, enslave them ideologically, and feel so triumphant.
“I went to my brother and shot him. Fuck, you should have seen it! I shot him three times in the chest, and when he collapsed, I felt as if all the weight I was carrying fell off my back at once. So, I looked at him, on the ground, writhing. I dropped the gun, and then I kicked and punched him, over and over, until he was dead.” He snorted with a maniacal expression on his face. Pain wasn't exactly what those memories brought, it was euphoria, a lot of euphoria. “He looked at me with fearful eyes, like the ones I had before. He was only one of billions. Getting rid of him was one of the wisest decisions I ever made. Since then, I have been with this society, our society; learning, fighting, building, and most importantly, being an emissary of Dragon, the absolute core of our ideals. His law is our law.”
“Dr… Dragon?”
“Yes. It is from him that Wilker learned what he knows. And the ideal manifests itself in all of us.” Blackburn left his spot and walked toward the rustic entrance of the dungeon, his tense arms crossed behind his back. “Better give up hope, your friends will die soon enough. Good talk,” he finished sneering before disappearing.
“No! Come back!” he shouted in vain.
He began desperately to think of a way out. He speculated that Frances might know what they had put into them—since she was a doctor—and know how to counteract it; or that he could find some more of whatever it was they had given him.
He stood up and shook the bars but couldn't get them to move. What was there that he could use? Nothing, nothing, there was nothing: the place was as barren as his mind. He clung angrily to the bars. They hadn't even managed to get in, not even that.
“You… What are you doing here?” a voice came from one of the shady corners.
“What?” he replied. His mind stopped dead in its tracks.
Caleb took a few steps out of the darkness with a look of suspicion and mistrust on his face.
“I think the remnants of the poison are making me hallucinate.” He covered his eyes with his palms. “Damn. I should be able to find my way out. It's nothing but a dank old dungeon!”
“You’re not hallucinating! I'm here and I want to know why you insist on finding us,” the boy repeated. He looked hesitant, and Gerard could see the effort he was making to hide his anger and nervousness. He clenched a dagger in his left hand. “You're all so stubborn, especially you.”
“Caleb!” he shouted at him in a choked voice. He was real, he knew now.
He suppressed his joy to speak softly.
“Oh, look at you… You've grown so much.”
“Yes, I'm already ten years old,” he replied carefully.
“Yes… Soon you won't be a child anymore.”
“I don't think of myself as a child anymore.”
The memories of the last time they had seen each other was stamped in his mind. He had to talk about it.
“What happened that day… I'm really sorry. I wish it hadn't happened that way, but…”
“I don't want to talk about it! And you won't be able to repeat it because we learn fast. If my general wants, he can kill you just like that… No, all the Cinian enemies. No doubt about it.”
Gerard's head was a mess. He had to explain himself, but he couldn’t talk about it: he didn't want him to leave, not like this.
Caleb looked at him sideways.
“Did you know that he wants me to be his heir? He wants me to be the one to replace him as head of the society.”
“And… Do you want that?”
From upstairs came the sound of heavy, swift footsteps: the guards making their rounds. The boy listened carefully and looked down.
“I'll get in trouble for being here.”
“Are you leaving already?” he asked hurriedly, “Wait a moment! I must ask you: is there any chance that…?”
“That I can help you with your team? I guessed it, didn't I? That’s what you want.”
Gerard nodded slowly.
“Well, yes. He hesitated for a moment. But I want you all to leave as soon as possible. Promise?”
“We will leave as soon as possible.”
“You need to do what you say because in a few hours this place will be full of soldiers, and you'll be finished.”
“A few hours, huh?” He smiled, knowing they would have plenty of time.
“There's a room almost in front of the back gate where they keep the poisons and antidotes. The ones you need are in blue vials. They always have it because sometimes in training they get poisoned by smoke grenades. It is injected into the arm. Those are there too.”
“Okay, blue vials, arm injection… Caleb,” he lowered his voice, “how do I get out of here?”
“Mmh,” he nodded shyly as he held out a dark key hidden under the left sleeve of his old blue suit. “I want to make it clear that this is to make us even: I'm not a traitor.”
“I'm sorry about Ivorsen.” He smiled, but not out of pride: it was never right to knock down a superior officer, never. But the last time they had met, this captain had the boy cornered, and one miscalculated move could have been the last: he was a child, but also an enemy of Cinia's. “I see. Can I at least ask you how you've been?”
The question was too intimate for him, though he did not recognize that as the cause of his startle. His coy gesture hardened.
“Surely you can imagine! It's not…”
He hastily closed his mouth at the sound of dozens of people running upstairs. The echo of their shouts and the orders of their officers could be heard all the way down there, though heavily muffled by the rock walls and ceilings. They were talking about making preparations, and that was all Gerard could make out.
“Enough! I’m leaving now.”
The boy threw him the key and ran off without giving him time to say anything else. He followed him with his eyes, cursing himself for not having thought of something better to say. The temptation to open the lock and run after him was strong, but the running upstairs continued.
“No, not yet.”
***
Arthur Ness stood in the large control room at the top of the Octagonal Tower, the nuclear building of the Diablo Two military base, a great tower of two hundred and fifty meters whose shape gave it its name. And next to him, some high-ranking military and communications control personnel were waiting.
“I beg your pardon?” he demanded to know.
“There is no communication with the Fifth Squad, no GPS signal from their communicators, sir… They are missing.”
They had hoped the team would take no more than three hours to make the incursion and that they would send a follow-up message to confirm their safety once they were out of harm's way; but it had been almost twice that time and they still had no response to the requests they had sent, and the Falconer's signal had been turned off for security.
“They have been captured,” he declared with chagrin and resigned admiration, “and I doubt they botched the operation through clumsiness.”
He feared the worst. He knew Wilker was methodical and always aware of what was going on around him, but how could he have known about this operation? The SODs were extremely dedicated to their duties, reliable as dogs.
“General, are you suggesting that… someone notified them?”
“It is clearly unwise to send more DOBs as backup. Until we know who the mole is, we can't use the SOD or Intelligence; we can't tell them anything. So, Colonel, get Security on it right away.
“As for Sarzo, it's clear that his people are a major threat if they've been able to plant a mole. We're going to the conference room to plan the attack.”
There was a lot of tension in the air: those present did not like the direction of the operation was taking.
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“I know we can't ignore the Kennéhsian government,” Ness continued, noting the nervousness. “Despite the truce, Kennéh won't even allow us to approach the border with a significant military force since the incident where those terrorists framed us. But we have compelling reasons: I will convince them.”
Of course, he received objections, occasional rebuffs bordering on insubordination, but there was no doubt in his mind: it had to be done, and as soon as possible.
***
The intense light of the setting sun glimmered over the mountains to the west.
Wilker sat and contemplated what he had built: a fierce people determined to establish a new order. To him, this was the ideal: a fine army, ready to fight every manifestation of retrogression and stupidity, for its own dignity and for the glory of the society, whose natural fears would be crushed under the weight of its determined, avenging rage. His orders never caused controversy; his warriors, accustomed to the hostility of the enemy and the indifference of God, gladly obeyed them.
He cleaned a small, elegant pair of glasses with a handkerchief. He put them on carefully and walked slowly towards his hostages.
In the middle of a stark meeting room, squeezed into a square cage, were the rest of the Fifth Squad. A few soldiers jeered around them.
“What happened?” whispered Burton, numb, cornered against the bars.
“First one to wake up!” he congratulated him. He gave a subtle smile, “Nothing happened, except that you're my hostage now. That's not much, is it?”
“Uh, oh no.”
A sudden, intense pain shot through his entire body, and he fell to the side. A breeze cooled the sweat on his head, and he realized he was not wearing a helmet, headset, or goggles. He looked at Cam and Frances and they weren't wearing theirs either.
Wilker approached him.
“Oh yes. You know, I think we have enough strength to attack the capital.”
Cam, sore and dizzy, heard their voices and tried to get to his feet.
“Hey,” he gasped. “Burton?”
“Cam!”
“What happened?”
“W-we've been captured,” he replied. “We're in a… cage.”
And he remembered that they were one short. He looked again to make sure he wasn't there.
He looked at his captor.
“Where's… where's our other companion?”
He ignored him and called to a lady waiting near the doorless threshold. She approached him and handed him a blue vial. He took it with great delicacy, as if its contents were liquid gold.
“Look,” he looked at Burton, “this is the antidote to the poison that was in the gas; I am giving it to you. Use it! I want you to go to your leader, old Ness, and tell him that we're not going to wait any longer, that we're tired of waiting, that we can't stand the craving any longer. Tell him we've declared war! If he's such a good leader, he'll know to give us what we want.”
“Declare war on us? Big mistake,” Cam vociferated angrily. But as he tried to move forward, pain paralyzed his legs, and he fell to his knees. “Please… What are you going to do against all of us?”
The general turned to him. He studied him from head to toe. He raised an eyebrow, curious.
“Don't be a fool. Look at you, stuck in there. You can't even move enough to stand up. How could anyone stop me in this situation?”
Cam looked at the floor without saying anything, and his captor was satisfied. After another subtle body signal, two men rushed to pull the NCO out of the cage and held him by the arms. The lady approached and Wilker handed her the vial. She pulled out a syringe and filled it to the brim, to poor Burton's horror. She walked up behind him and gently plunged the needle into his arm, though he could not suppress a nervous groan.
Wilker watched indifferently.
“That's it, now go get that little plane you left in the canyon. Tell Arthur Ness that the Kennéhsian Dragon’s Society is declaring war on his damn country!”
Not knowing what to do, Burton looked away to Cam, who was still on his knees.
“Do as he says, go,” he whispered firmly.
He nodded. He tried to concentrate on walking, which he did clumsily. He walked heavily across the room towards the exit, the object of jeers from the soldiers present. He managed to get out, frightened and confused, wondering why Wilker had chosen him.
Wilker smiled, and then he felt the captain's gaze on him, full of anger and disapproval.
“Anything to add?”
“What are you playing at? You can do that with a simple phone call, can't you? Damn it! Are you doing this just to have an excuse to shoot him on the run?”
“Of course not!” he replied, offended. “Look at it this way, Captain: the boy is a gift for the old general. It makes the bad news easier to bear, and it's a lot more fun.”
“Oh, sure, fun,” he repeated sarcastically. “You're a damn sadist.”
“Please see the plank in your own eye.” He smiled again. “You are full of guilt.”
Cam snorted but didn't answer. He was feeling weaker and weaker, and his head was spinning. He sighed: at least it looked like they'd actually let Burton go, he'd be okay.
***
When the bustle died down, Gerard opened the cell and hurried to the stairs.
He tiptoed up them, alert for any sound too close.
Directly in front of him was a precariously assembled wall of wooden planks. The Society had built wooden walls along the sides to cover a few side doors. This construction continued to the transept, where it was cut off and continued into the apse. He peered through the door closest to the transept on the right. He guessed that the doors led to small enclosures, chapels, or to the lower level.
A few people were still walking around the perimeter, near the open church gate. The church, an imposing ruin. The nave gave the impression of total abandonment: part of the roof and the front walls had collapsed, letting in light and dirt at will; stones and plaster lay scattered in the corners, piled up or cracked; the floor was dusty and dirty; the windows had long since ceased to exist, and the remaining ornaments were dull and gray. The general atmosphere was gloomy.
He already knew from reports that the church had been repurposed and its occupants had built a rear annex, covering part of the sides and leaving the dilapidated nave as a foyer. Maybe they hadn't repaired it because some of the decay was aesthetically pleasing, or maybe they just didn't care. Now he also knew that there were underground levels, although the one he had seen seemed to be as old as the church: they had not built it.
Suddenly he heard a curse from his right and recognized his captain's voice. He continued to watch the soldiers and his surroundings.
He would have to go through this open area if he wanted to follow Cam's voice.
He ran to the front wall and watched for anyone behind it before hiding there. Ah, the wall hid a high door; it was definitely the entrance to the annex. He stepped in and sharpened his ears. He crossed a wide, dusty corridor with small windows at the sides. Then the corridor wall became a series of pillars separating him from a large room to his left. He crouched down and ducked to look around a corner: a cage, in the middle of the room. It was somewhat dark. He heard Cam cursing again, almost babbling, and knew who was there. He followed his gaze and was stunned to see the hunched silhouette leaning over a small, round window. The temptation again, that damned urge to just run off cover! Scott would have to wait, first he had to get the antidote, help the others, and then maybe face him.
He forced himself to continue walking down the corridor.
The storage room was easy to find, right in front of the back gate, as Caleb had said. The small room was crammed with pharmaceuticals of all kinds and brands. The shelves and refrigerators were all there was. He found the blue vials and took a handful, plus three syringes.
He was about to return when a violent rumble shook the room. The medicine fell to the floor with him. He jerked back, startled, confused. A silence of seconds, and then gunshots, war cries, and more gunshots. They were not close, but on the other side of the church, perhaps even outside the fortress. The sound of battle was getting louder by the moment: he had to move. He hurried back, scanning the area.
“… let it downstairs! Now!”
Gerard took cover behind a pillar as he saw a whole platoon of soldiers coming out of one of the surrounding corridors.
“They can get out by the back gate, and if they don't, to hell with it,” the commander shouted in a wild rage, almost spitting. “If they don't make it, let it be known that they died for their loyalty. Now, to the courtyard, let's go!”
They flocked on, leaving him alone. He hurried into the hall, careful not to make any loud noises, always ready to take cover if more of them appeared.
He peered out hesitantly, taking slow, deep breaths, ready for Scott. No… He was nowhere to be seen. Sooner or later, he said to himself.
He approached the cage very cautiously.
“Cam! Frances!” he whispered.
They were both on the floor, Frances unconscious and Cam unable to speak.
He knelt beside them and pulled out the syringes and vials. In the arms, Caleb had said. He saw his own fingers tremble as he tried to grasp his companions' arms through the bars and administer the solution. He continued to tremble afterward: it was hideously frustrating! And as it took effect, he sat down and closed his eyes at the risk of being caught: a minute of meditation.
Cam stirred. He pointed, not without effort, across the hall to a table covered with glasses and bottles of whiskey. Gerard walked over and saw a key ring next to a knife sheath.
He tried the keys in the old lock. He opened it and slid the bars carefully so as not to make them squeak.
“You'll be fine,” he whispered, “I promise.”
“What-what's that? That noise… Am I crazy or is that gunfire?”
The lieutenant shrugged.
“Suddenly everyone came running out, and soon there was a big explosion. I'm afraid there's a battle going on outside.”
“Gerard,” he gasped, “we need to get a PCC and contact the tower. And… Burton is out there, Scott let him go to inform them that war has been declared on us. Damn, I hope he didn't end up in the middle of this conflict.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, I know. Cam leaned against the bars. Your brother's a freak and a sadist, no offense.”
The lieutenant nodded with a slight grimace, then grew more nervous.
“Scott told them?” He looked at Frances.
“Oh, no. They don't know, but if you want my wise leader opinion,” he sat up, holding on to the cage, “you should bring them up to speed.”
“I'll deal with that later… Now, I haven't come across anything useful as a PCC, so I think we should try to go out back and assess the fight.”
Frances threw a kick and jerked, alarmed, ready for the blows. Her eyes quickly found her companions standing by the cage. Cam raised an eyebrow and half smiled.
“Huh.” She looked in all directions, unsure of what was going on. “Where are we?”
“The short version is that we were ambushed, poisoned, captured, and caged. Burton was released to ‘spice up’ a declaration of war. Then Gerard showed up to save our asses, and by that I mean antidote injections, while apparently the whole society came out to fight.”
She stood up with their help.
“Okay, I think I got everything you said,” she assured him, even though her head was spinning, “‘Declaration of war’, wow! But these guys can't make war on us. Don't they know how powerful the Cinian army is? They'll mow them all down!” she exclaimed.
“True,” Cam thought. The Cinian forces had a reputation for being unstoppable when they waged war. In fact, that ability had been their only defense during the War of the Line some twenty-five years earlier, the war that had finally settled the borders between the newly formed countries of The Line. Cephor, Kennéh: they had technology or numbers, respectively; but Cinia was in the middle, in the old New Mexico desert, outnumbered and trying to cover two—and sometimes three—flanks.
Neither really understood what Scott Wilker was trying to accomplish.
“He's no fool,” Gerard declared, “he must have a plan, an ace up his sleeve.”
“Yes, he's planning something,” Cam conceded, “Wilker wouldn't just throw his operation away. But, well, Art will know what to do. Let's get out of here.”
Without further ado, they headed for the back exit. There were still guards making their rounds, but they were few and completely distracted, glued to the windows. It would have been easy to evade them, even without their DOB operative skills.
They found the back gate and exited at a slow pace. They finally had a direct view of the battle; and there weren't as many people in it as they'd imagined. Most of them must have been dug in, firing, taking cover and firing again. The wall of this entire section had been destroyed, and sparks from the guns glittered in the darkness of the ruined houses. Then two armored all-terrain vehicles appeared from the right and their side machine guns striked at one of the nearest buildings. The Fifth Squad could hardly believe it!
“The attackers are Cinians! Shit, they can't have found out about the declaration of war so soon” Cam exclaimed, relieved but confused.
“Hell, is it possible that Art sent them to rescue us?” Frances wondered, noting the Cinian crest on the vehicles: a hawk and a coyote with their backs to each other, two rifles above and below, and the motto “We Thrive in Adversity.”
The vehicles stopped and the soldiers got out at full speed. Some went to check the building, the others stayed.
“Well, we don't need the PCC anymore.”
They stepped out of the shadows and approached the soldiers with their arms in the air.
“Stop! Drop your weapons!” yelled the commander.
“We have no weapons. The society took them from us,” Cam explained. “We are the Fifth Squad of the DOB. I'm Captain Cameron, I'm sure you know that, right?”
The man watched them carefully and ordered the others to continue guarding the buildings. The squad arrived where they were, and Cam knew exactly what he needed to know.
“Who are you and what are your orders?”
“Second Lieutenant Munguia. We're here to raze the place and kill as many of these paramilitaries as we can. And yes, we are aware that you were captured, and we were supposed to look for you after we took over the outside… Although I guess you didn't need that much help.” He looked at Cam with total indifference. “Black dogs, I guess the training really helps. You want to talk to my major?”
“He needs to be softened up,” Frances whispered to Gerard.
“What?” the man growled.
“We don't have time for this,” Cam shouted. “I'll talk to him now, come on.”
He picked up the PCC and the offered handset and made the call. He walked away with it to talk privately. He circled the cars twice as he spoke, then stopped to listen, and returned with a smile on his face.
“Good news! Burton was intercepted by the troops and is safe on the other side of town. He is well and has already communicated with the tower. Art is making plans as we speak.”
“Great!” exclaimed Frances.
“What about this attack? Did the major say why Art launched it?”
“Yes…” He moved closer to her and muttered: “Apparently there's a mole in the Intelligence Department, most likely in the Special Reconnaissance Branch, and that's why Scott knew we were coming. Art is convinced that these people are more dangerous than we thought and decided to start the raid immediately instead of waiting for the evidence he wanted.”
Gerard didn't like what he heard at all.
“I really hope Art didn't call in the troops without the president's approval.”
“I don't know, what I do know is the major's orders: we're to meet Burton there and then be taken to the Falconer.”
The lieutenant assigned them one of the cars, and the driver drove them through the hole they had made in the wall; he drove around the town until they reached the improvised base, not far from where they had tried to sneak in. Burton was outside the communications tent when they arrived. The driver stopped just long enough for him to get in and leave the scene.
“Burton!” Frances patted him on the back. “I see you made it out of the fortress in one piece.”
“Heck, yeah! I thought I was going to get shot in the back as soon as I got out in the open! And then, when I got to the wall, I heard the explosion and the whole section to my left was blown to pieces. I saw them coming right away, and I had such a hard time finding the words to identify myself that they almost killed me… Oh!” he said, startled. “And you, what happened to the poison? How did you get out of the cage? And Gerard, how did you all get together? Are you all right?”
“Whoa, slow down! Gerard saved us, he was the one who brought the antidote and got us out of the cage.” She looked at him with a broad smile. “Although, come to think of it, I still don't know how he escaped and found us.”
“Right,” Cam said, “how did you escape, pal?”
Gerard hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words.
“I was in a dungeon in the basement. A rustic, unsecured place. The grille was a little rusty, and I managed to break the bolts with rocks; then I went outside to look for you. And at one point I overheard some soldiers talking about the toxic gas and how they themselves had to use an antidote when they were accidentally exposed… A little further on, I found the room you were in, and I had to sneak past Scott Wilker so he wouldn't see me. So, I just kept looking until I found this little cellar in the back and the right vial was easy to identify by the label. There were instructions for use and syringes. I think that's when the battle began. And when I returned to the room, there were no more soldiers. Cam was the one who knew where to find the key, so that's to his credit.”
“Wow!” Burton was dazzled. “Gerard, you really are an excellent DOB agent.”
“We all are, Buck.” He smiled serenely. Then he tilted his head to look around. I think we're close.”
“Yes, we're close,” the driver confirmed. “We haven't lost the signal from your heliplane, so the dogs….”
“You know the recon guys don't like that term?” Cam reminded him.
“Hmmm. So, the scouts found it as we approached the area.”
They entered the canyon basin, and the car slowed. It followed the curves of the rock face until they came to the shady crevice where the Falconer was. Everyone got out at once, though still cautiously.
“Looks like no one's been here in the meantime,” Cam judged, surveying the sand, which was devoid of any footprints but their own.
“Of course not, the dog… scouts, that is, they guarded the perimeter when they arrived.”
“Yes, all right then.” He approached the Falconer, slid open a small panel, and used his right thumb on the digital reader to open the door. The door unlocked and Cam carefully slid it open.
The Fifth Squad boarded their ship and the car turned around and went the way it had come.
The Falconer rolled out of its hiding place and into the open field. The propellers lifted it slowly over the wall and off it went. They had a full view of the battle. And it looked like it was going to get better: a dozen trucks and cars were approaching Sarzo at full speed from the right side of the canyon. Then one of them stopped, turned around, and started following the Falconer.
“I don't know what he's up to: he can't do anything to us,” Frances commented.
As if they had heard her, the windows rolled down and the muzzles of the rifles came out with virulent belligerence. They began to fire.
“We've wasted too much time already,” Cam grumbled. “Ignore them, the Falconer's armor will protect us.”
They listened as the bullets hit the fuselage, making sure they did not pull any heavy weapons out of their sleeves. And as they managed to get away from the truck, they realized they had more company: three enemy soldiers' planes were approaching from the town. They looked like very long, sandstone-colored heliplanes. They were a very common Kennéhsian model, and in Cinia they were called dragonflies, hunting ships.
One of them turned on the loudspeaker.
“You! If it weren't for this Cinian attack, you wouldn't have been so lucky,” the loudspeaker shouted angrily. However, this is not about recapturing you, gentlemen, this is already part of the war. When I have you in my power, you will not be prisoners again, because you will die!
“Oh, heck. Cam, these are hunting dragonflies, we won't be able to outrun them even with full thrusters,” Burton reported, a bit affected by adrenaline.
“I know! There's no choice: maneuver as best you can to avoid their attacks. Let's take them through the middle of the canyon: less space, less speed.”
“Yes, Captain.”
That was a very determined yes.
Gerard stared at the dragonflies with narrowed eyes and slightly furrowed brows.
“Guys, I think I know that man. He visited me in the dungeon. His name is Blackburn, a colonel.”
“Really? Why didn't you say so before?” Cam asked. Sometimes Gerard kept too much to himself. One can't be at ease that way.
“He didn't say anything relevant to our task and I didn't think he was worth talking about, that's all,” he justified himself. “He's obsessed with revenge; we must be careful.”
“Okay, another reason to get rid of those ships,” he snorted. “Gerard, Frankie, don't hesitate to destroy them. So, no mercy!”
“That's what I'm talking about!” Frankie ran to the left turret controls. Gerard followed her and sat down on the other side to take over the second one.
“Cam, I don't think it's necessary to kill them. It will be enough to disable their weapons. But I will act according to the situation,” he said.
“Soldier, I've already given my orders. Take them down!” he bellowed. Sometimes his lieutenant was too considerate, really, it was not possible to be so kind to everyone, least of all to those who try to kill you.
“Yes, sir,” the other replied, a little embarrassed.
The three terrible dragonflies were close behind the Falconer, and Blackburn was not about to let them out of his sight, even at the risk of crashing into the canyon walls.
“Fire and let them fall! Let's see who comes out on top in this stupid little shitty game… What are you doing?! You're so useless!” he continued yelling at his soldiers.
One of them looked discontent, defensive. The PCC she wore around her waist began to ring. She answered and hung up almost immediately.
She interrupted his yelling.
“You know Wilker wants them to relay his message. If he finds out you're attacking them prematurely…”
“Oh, Captain Vinn, are you going to tell them? Besides, we're just having a little fun,” he let out one of his contemptuous laughs. “We'll just chase them for a while. Scaring them always works.”
“Doug…”
“No. It's Colonel Blackburn! Where are your manners?”
She went back to her spot with dejection and annoyance.
Burton kept trying to make them crash into the ledges and curves of the dry canyon, but every subtle turn was imitated to perfection.
“Damn, don't they get tired? Burton, speed it up!” Cam ordered, his patience wearing thin.
“I'm doing the best I can, b-but if I increase the speed, I'll end up losing control myself. I can't do it like this!”
Gerard pressed the battered fire button for the umpteenth time.
“I'm running out of ammunition and I barely damaged them,” he reported, sweating. “They're moving too fast.”
“I see. We must think of something! Or they'll shoot us down.”
Frances listened without taking her eyes off the ships. As the Falconer passed near an unstable area, a large rock fell, almost hitting the tail. She watched it fall into the abyss.
“I bet we could get rid of them if we blew out the walls of the canyon.”
“Sounds dangerous, we could get shot down too,” Gerard thought.
“If we lead them into the crevice below us, we can blow the rock above us and get rid of the dragonflies… Or at least it would help us slow them down,” she explained.
“Gerard, how much explosives do we have?” asked Cam.
A few short-range projectiles. I guess I can't convince you, can I?” he asked dryly.
Burton listened to them and paid more attention to the rocks around him, trying to figure out what he would have to do to get past the cave-in.
“All right, I can do it. I'll get down to where the wall recedes and when I tell you, fire both projectiles.” He tapped his touchpad next to the rudder. “I've already set the angle. Okay, we only have one chance.”
Gerard snorted resignedly. Cam tapped him on the shoulder.
“Let's do it,” he conceded with a smile that tried to hide his nervousness.
And with that order, Burton headed down into the deep cavity below, which stretched for miles. The planes followed him to the edge. He could barely evade their gunfire.
Cam gave Gerard a sideways glance.
“All right, they're all yours, buddy.”
“Hold on to whatever you can,” the pilot warned. “Three, two, one… Go!”
Without saying a word, Gerard pressed the button on the cannon.
There was a deafening boom behind the Falconer and the ship shook violently.
Rocks flew into pieces. Some shot up, the heavier ones plummeting into the void, right over the enemy heliplanes. The wall there was so porous that the whole area collapsed, and the vibrations had a similar, though much lesser, effect on the opposite wall.
The Falconer could barely fly in the cloud of dust and dirt. One of the rocks, a large one, hit the right wing, causing it to spin out of control for a moment, but Burton steadied it.
They emerged from the dust cloud and immediately sought to gain altitude.
“Do you hear them?” asked Cam, stunned.
“I don't see them… Radar's not picking them up,” Burton replied.
“They're done,” Frances declared triumphantly.
They watched the dusty mess, waiting for it to dissipate and for the vehicles to appear on the ground.
Suddenly they became aware of a heavy whirring sound increasing in front of the ship.
“Oh no,” Burton groaned, completely dejected.
Cam was about to ask him if the Heliplane had suffered serious damage when he discovered the cause of his distress: seven dragonflies, a larger model than the previous ones, were approaching overhead, heading straight for the Falconer. They were gigantic. The Falconer looked like a casual model for rides compared to those machines. They were about thirty-five meters long and had engines that roared like stampeding mastodons. They were black. Absolutely terrifying.
“Any suggestions?”
“No, Captain,” Gerard stared at them with a blank expression.
“Damn,” Frances cursed in a choked voice.
They were absorbed, waiting for death, when the lieutenant interrupted them: the dust had dissipated.
Blackburn climbed out of one of the crashed ships, barely able to stand. He struggled to keep his eyes on the Falconer. His anger, heightened by the humiliation, was further disturbed when he saw the seven dragonflies who belonged to his society pass it by and turn to Sarzo, ignoring them as well.
“Fuck, what's wrong with these bastards?!”
He quickly turned his eyes back to the Falconer which was speeding away.
Without further ado, he had to go back.
“What's wrong with them?” Burton asked anxiously.
“I don't know… It looks like they didn't come for us,” Cam replied. A bead of sweat fell from his chin.
Gerard took a deep breath, relieved.
“It doesn't matter. Let's go before they decide to come back.”
Everyone nodded silently.
“Full speed ahead, Burton,” Cam ordered.
And he simply resumed his course.
Over the safe, open valley, the exhausted Fifth Squad was finally able to communicate with their superiors again; but the onboard transmitter, located on the right side of the ship, the part of the ship that had just been hit, was completely broken.
“Didn't you borrow a PCC?” Frances asked.
“I had to return it: they were out of extras,” Cam replied, rubbing his temple. “Don't worry, the troops will report about the dragonflies; and we should prepare our own report.”
Gerard crossed his arms.
“And what a report it's going to be! If it hadn't been for Scott's decision to come out of hiding, the operation would have been a failure.”
Cam remembered why they were there in the first place. It was true, they had technically failed. Mole or not, they had allowed themselves to be captured. And now he was worried that Art had sent in the troops without the president's approval.
“Let's look on the bright side: now we don't need proof.”